by Anna Davies
I glanced out the window at the empty campus. While cast members of Hamlet were rushing to rehearsal, I had a whole day of nothing yawning in front of me. I just wished the next two weeks would fly by, so second semester would hurry up and start. Once the campus was full of students, I’d be able to slip back into anonymity. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I’d already had one semester of empty afternoons and overhearing inside jokes I didn’t get. I’d survived. And I’d be able to survive it again.
I picked up the book on my desk. It was The Magic Mountain, our required break reading for English. I’d just gotten a few pages in, but I couldn’t concentrate. The book was all about a guy who goes to visit his cousin at a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients and ends up getting stuck there for seven years, surrounded by the same people and living the same routine, day in and day out. It was supposed to be an allegory about modern life, or something, and it hit way too close to home right now. I already knew what it was like to feel surrounded and watched, with nowhere to escape. I didn’t need to read about it.
Not knowing what else to do, but needing to do something, I spotted a box of hair dye in Willow’s dresser. It was a coppery red that I remembered from the beginning of the fall. I grabbed the box and headed into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, my hair was orange.
I looked at my reflection with a sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t pretty. It was the type of color any disaffected teenager would use, a sign they were done trying to fit in. Because what was the point? Whatever I’d done hadn’t been good enough. I couldn’t stand out on my talent, and I was sick of trying to blend in.
I left the bathroom and went back to my room. A new Tweet had popped up on my feed.
Tristan Schuler
Get ready for some “drama.” Read about it here. New article!
I clicked on the link and an article from the MacHale Crier blog popped up on my screen.
FORSOOTH, FORSYTH! WHY ADD MORE DRAMA TO MACHALE?
We are scholars. We are artists. We are dreamers. We are seekers, here to find the Maine difference promised to us by promotional brochures and our illustrious headmistress, Dr. Conger. We are the so-called “Macolytes,” the proud upholders of the MacHale tradition who’ve found this tiny paradise in the woods and made it our own.
And now, it seems, we are an open campus for whoever wants to drop in. The recent decision to open auditions for the Winterm production to students from Forsyth High School was a decision made by Dr. Conger to, in her words, “continue the mutually beneficial relationship between the town of Forsyth and the institution of MacHale.” Admirable words and an admirable goal, but why is it that MacHale students are the only ones being asked to sacrifice?
Take, for example, Briana Beland. A transfer to MacHale and loyal member of the drama department, Beland had hopes of nabbing the part of Ophelia in the Hamlet production. However, Beland was cruelly overlooked in the audition process and didn’t get any part. Now, she’s stranded during winter break on the MacHale campus, forced to witness her peers participate in a production without her — all because of the administration’s decision to invite the Forsyth community into an already over-enrolled program. They can talk about community and relationship-building all they want, but what do they have to say to Briana Beland, who’s been left out in the cold? Forcing us to somehow atone for the subsequent misunderstandings will most likely only serve to further raise the windchill on campus….
I pushed the mouse back, the words swimming in front of me as rage coursed through my veins. Was that why Tristan had been so eager to be friendly? Just so he could get some sort of story? And seriously? Of course he was Hamlet’s Ghost. He used the same flowery, over-the-top language. He stirred up drama. He wasn’t my friend.
I’d already lost the part. But Tristan had stolen my dignity.
I grabbed my phone with a clammy hand and texted Tristan.
Come over now.
A tear rolled down my cheek, then another and another. I wiped my eyes and caught sight of myself in the mirror, the coppery-orange dye job clashing with the purple-and-white comforter on my bed.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on my door. “It’s open,” I called halfheartedly, not bothering to wipe away my tears.
Tristan walked in, his mouth dropping in horror. “What did you do to yourself? Bree, honey, is this a cry for help?”
“Hello, Tristan,” I said flatly.
“Looks like someone dyed,” he said. “Ha! Lame joke.”
“It was a lame joke. And an even lamer article. Why did you do that?” I exploded. “Weren’t you supposed to write about the dangers of battery-eating or something?”
“I did write the battery piece. I just didn’t Tweet it. I thought this topic was more interesting. And also, FYI, I wrote it for you.”
“You made me look like a loser.”
A shocked expression crossed Tristan’s face. “Loser? No. I made you look like a heroine. I’m giving you a spotlight, babe. I thought you’d like it.”
“I don’t.” I shook my head.
Tristan enveloped me into a hug. Despite myself, I leaned in as a fresh sob rose to my throat.
Tristan pulled away. “Did you just blow your nose on my shirt?”
“No! Though you’d deserve it.”
“You better not have. Because I can deal with emotions. I can’t deal with fluids.”
“Sorry,” I said sulkily. He seemed utterly unphased by my reaction.
“It’s okay. I guess we’re even. And I know, I know, I should have asked you. But I didn’t have time. And it’ll get you the attention you deserve. For the right reasons, not the hair situation. Which you need to explain.”
My hands flew up to cover my head, as if that would do anything. “I needed a change,” I said coolly.
“You needed a friend,” Tristan said. “That is not your color.”
“Well, since I’m not in the play, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“It does matter, because that hair color makes it clear that you’re having a breakdown. It’s an expression of hostility.”
“I’m not hostile toward anyone!” I said, knowing my tone made it clear that wasn’t the case. “I mean, Mr. O’Dell told me why I didn’t get the part. He said I wasn’t ‘honest enough.’ And whatever, he’s the one who has the final say.”
“Yeah, but maybe he would have thought differently if the Forsyth kids hadn’t been there,” Tristan said. “Have you thought about that? All of a sudden, it’s double the competition.”
“Of course the idea crossed my mind,” I said casually. As if the images weren’t constantly swarming in my head: Groups of kids running to Peace-a-Pizza or Hope’s Cookies during a quick rehearsal break to grab snacks. Inside jokes shared in the green room. Eric and Kennedy making eyes at each other from across the stage. Eric and Skye running lines in her room. Skye always giving me that incredibly insincere It’s so sad puppy-dog expression. It was like a bad movie I couldn’t turn off. “But thinking about it doesn’t change anything.”
“So you agree with my article. You would have gotten a part if the Forsyth kids weren’t there, and they took your opportunity. Isn’t that right?” Tristan asked.
“I don’t know!” I exploded. “I mean, Kennedy was good. And at the end of the day, if Kennedy hadn’t been there, the part would have gone to Skye. Thanks for trying to help, but you didn’t. And next time you write about me, ask first, okay? Or just stick to the dead students who can’t speak for themselves.”
I turned to go, but Tristan pulled me back. “So, what are you going to do? After you dye your hair back from pumpkin. You still haven’t told me why you decided to do that.”
“I needed a change. The box said red. Not everything has to have a story.”
“But your hair is now orange,” Tristan countered. “Seriously, you, Bree, darling, are turning into a tragic heroine, whether you know it or not.”
“I’m not tragic. If you want trag
edy, write about Andi.”
“Andi isn’t tragic. Andi is dumb. And she has nothing to do with the real story, which is that MacHale still feels guilty over the Sarah Charonne murder. You know that Andi won’t be remembered in twenty years, but if Sarah hadn’t been murdered twenty years ago, then Forsyth would never be involved in the play, and you’d be Ophelia, don’t you?”
“I don’t think some dead girl from twenty years ago has any control over my life,” I said sharply. “And stop turning my life into your story.”
My phone buzzed, breaking the silence. It was my mother. Ugh. That would be the worst part of the entire ordeal. To tell my mom, after everything, my best wasn’t good enough. And she’d be sympathetic, which would make it even worse. With my luck, she’d probably cry on the phone. I let the call go to voice mail. “I think I just need to be by myself for a bit. I’m not good company right now,” I said.
“But I’m stellar company,” Tristan said. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. And I still need to get you to forgive me. I know you’re still mad.”
I gave him a hard look. “But since you offered, you can begin by making it up to me with a Hope’s Cookies brownie. And not a half-price one you got because it was after six p.m. A full-priced one only. And that’s just to start.”
But Tristan wasn’t listening. Instead, he was squinting down at his iPhone screen.
“Did you even hear what I said?” I asked, sighing as I felt my anger ebbing and the sadness creeping back in. It didn’t matter whether or not Tristan wrote an article; the reality was still the same. I didn’t have a part. I wasn’t part of the play. And I had to do something. It was a MacHale requirement that any student on campus for Winterm had to participate in an activity. I could play a sport or build houses for Habitat for Humanity or spend weekends making trails at the state park. I could try out for the science bowl. I could work for the newspaper and have Tristan as my editor. Nothing sounded appealing.
I thought again about Mr. O’Dell’s offer. Social media director? On the surface, it sounded like torture. Every single day, I would have to face the fact that I hadn’t gotten cast. I’d have to watch Skye act, both onstage and in her sympathetic glances toward me. Once again, I’d be relegated to the background as Briana. But it was the only way I could stay involved. I could still see Eric. I could still be a part of the energy backstage. If I loved theater, I would do it.
I stood up and yanked my hair back into a ponytail. “I need to go. I’ll see you later.” I stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Tristan behind as I headed to the theater.
“Please let it be empty,” I whispered as I pushed open the door.
It wasn’t. Students were clumped in groups, gossiping, chatting, and laughing. And maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I heard someone suck in their breath before lowering their voice to a whisper as I walked by.
There goes the loser who didn’t get a part.
Of course, I couldn’t hear the exact words anyone was saying, but what else could it have been? Which only made it more urgent that I prove that I wasn’t the sad, lonely, tragic person Tristan pegged me as in the newspaper story. I hurried backstage, relieved at the quiet surrounding me.
While the auditorium itself was both cozy and majestic, with its skylight, rough-hewn benches, and dark wooden stage, the backstage area was barnlike and cramped. A balcony-like loft accessible by a narrow wooden staircase ringed the space, joining the metallic catwalk that led to the lights crossing the auditorium ceiling. Metal cages filled with costumes, props, and stage crew supplies dotted the loft, giving off the appearance of a prison. At one end of the loft was an unmarked metal door that led to the windowless drama office. At the other was a gate that separated the loft from the catwalk, barred with a metal chain and a Do Not Enter sign.
I picked my way through the maze of mismatched tables and chairs, clothing racks, and varying sizes of plywood beams covering the floor. As I headed to the staircase that led to the drama office, someone stepped out from the shadows and blocked my path.
It was Skye, eyeing me with the same look of suspended disdain that Dr. Conger gave any student who slunk late into chapel. It was a look that said We both know you messed up, but I’m going to do you a favor and not embarrass you further by saying anything. It was a look far worse than simply being called out, because it made you feel like an idiot for the entire day.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Mr. O’Dell is very strict about having closed rehearsals. That means cast only. Sorry.” She gave me an I’m not sorry at all smile.
“I didn’t know you were the assistant director,” I said icily.
“I’m not. I’m Ophelia.” Her slate-gray eyes narrowed, as if willing me to correct her and say that, actually, she was only the understudy. I wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.
“And I have a meeting with Mr. O’Dell.” Not waiting for a response, I sidestepped her and hurried up the rickety steps into the tiny theater office.
At the door, I could hear strains of weird chanting music emanating from the room, far different than the Broadway-musical cast recordings Dr. Spidell used to play. I raised my hand to knock, but before I could, the door swung open.
“Ms. Beland, it’s good to see you again. Come in.” He opened the door farther and gestured inside. I glanced around at the bare floors and stark walls. When it was Dr. Spidell’s office, the floor had been covered with old VHS tapes of past performances, and every square inch of wall had been covered with brightly colored posters from musicals.
“Sit.” He gestured to the top of a rickety filing cabinet as he took a seat in the director’s chair next to his desk. BRECKIN was embroidered in thick white script. What type of name is Breckin, anyway? I thought savagely. Mr. O’Dell must have caught my expression, because his own soured, too, from one of bemused indifference to one of vague hostility. But then I smiled, and it was gone, as though I’d imagined it.
“I read the article about the cast list. I’m sorry to have heard how upset you were. And I only wish you and I could have properly talked before you aired your grievances to the public at large. Because I think we had a misunderstanding. And here’s the thing I didn’t get a chance to tell you before.” He rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “You are good. I wasn’t just saying that to make you feel better about yourself. I don’t do that. When I saw you onstage, my first thought was that you were good. You’ve got presence, your voice carries, and I want to know more about you. But …”
Here it came: But I wasn’t good enough. That I should really pay more attention in bio and consider going on the pre-med track once I got to college. I braced myself, hoping that at least whatever acting skills I had would be enough to not cause me to cry until after I left the office.
“I don’t think you understand acting. That was what I’d been trying to tell you yesterday, but I think I lost you when I said it wasn’t an honest performance. And that wasn’t the right word. It was an honest performance. But it wasn’t Ophelia’s performance. You were doing it for you. You cried real tears. I saw that. But they weren’t Ophelia’s tears. They were the tears of a girl who desperately wants validation. And that’s not what I need. And it’s not what you need, either. Trust me, I’ve seen actresses like you before, the ones who crave the spotlight. They aren’t being true to the art. The world needs more artists. Not more performers. And this Hamlet is going to be a work of art. I’m very excited. And I would like you to play a part in my vision. What do you think?”
I narrowed my eyes, not sure which part of his speech was most insulting. While I pondered, Mr. O’Dell stood up and began pacing the room, as though he was performing a monologue.
“The theater is all about trust. You have to trust in yourself to create a believable character the audience will root for. And I saw someone onstage who is very good … no, more than good — who is gifted when it comes to adopting different roles. But none of the roles were anchored. Does that make sense?�
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I nodded, which only made the tears welling at the corners of my eyes trickle down my face.
“I know you’re not listening. And that’s all right,” he said gently. “What’s important is that you came back to Hamlet. And I promise that this performance, and your part in it, will go down in history. We’re revolutionizing the genre. Trust me.”
I nodded, not making eye contact. If he thought I was so great, then why didn’t he give me a chance? How revolutionary could Tweeting about the show be? I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve. I had nothing left to lose, just one more chance to make Mr. O’Dell reconsider his decision.
“I just … Theater is really important to me. And I …” I choked back a sob, because I couldn’t tell him the truth: that theater was everything. That I belted out Broadway show tunes whenever I was in the shower. That I turned my Spotify playlist to private just so no one would know how many times I’d listened to the Smash soundtrack. That I’d read Moon for the Misbegotten so many times I had it memorized. That theater was a chance for me to not be quiet, to not be average, to not be me. That I “tried really hard.” I shrugged, shook my head, and mustered a smile. “But I’ll be okay.”
Mr. O’Dell nodded. “You see, that is what I needed to see onstage. Your truth, as manifested by Ophelia. Here, I see vulnerability and sadness and confusion. Onstage, I saw competition. I’m not saying you’re not good, because I can tell that you have potential. And I want to bring it out if you’ll let me. This will be good for you as an actress. Don’t think of the social media director gig as some assignment to keep you busy. Think of it as playing Hamlet on Twitter!”
“So you want me to Tweet quotes and stuff?”
Mr. O’Dell shook his head. “I most adamantly do not want you to Tweet quotes and stuff. What I want is for you to really find the voice of the play and Tweet it to everyone. What’s the behind-the-scenes gossip? What’s the drama? What would Hamlet think of it? I want everything from asking people if Hamlet would rather watch baby panda videos or baby hippo videos on YouTube, to getting input on design choices. We want this Hamlet to be interactive, and you will be the one to help us break the fourth wall and make the audience essential to our theatrical journey.”
